


An End-of-the-World Kind of a Thing

by cullenlovesmen



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Renegade Shepard (Mass Effect), Self-Discovery, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26342056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cullenlovesmen/pseuds/cullenlovesmen
Summary: James Vega has never lost sleep over a man, but it seems there's a first time for everything. He's not looking to fraternize with his fellow soldiers, but with the end of the world looming over him, maybe he'll bend the rules just this once.
Relationships: Male Shepard/James Vega
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25
Collections: Fic In A Box





	An End-of-the-World Kind of a Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barbex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex/gifts).



It doesn’t hit James right away. 

No, he’s too shocked to think of it when it happens; blood’s gushing in his ears, he’s too tightly wound. Every ounce of self-control needed to stand down. 

So he huffs and walks away, leaning on a weapons locker. He flicks a quick look around — no-one’s watching, they’re all piling on their armour — and slides down to sit on a nearby crate. The insides of his cheeks sting between his teeth. Not fucking helpful, being angry about it. Earth is still on fire, and they’re headed to Mars, of all places.

His breathing settles after a moment, but it’s an uneasy calm. He prepares quickly; there’s a job to do. This is not how he imagined things would go down; being a million miles away from home while his people are being slaughtered. 

Later, he stabs what’s left of his energy into a punching bag. Until he’s breathless again. A sweaty mess. Too tired to think. Not about the people left behind, not about Alenko half-dead in the med bay, not about how good it felt to crash that shuttle.

Steve pats him on the back, walks with him to the crew deck, and James claims an upper-storey bunk. It’s comfier than expected. He closes his eyes, forcing his muscles to relax, one by one. Ain’t nothing he can do now that’d change a damn thing. 

Just as he’s drifting off, it hits him; the ghost of Shepard’s breath on his face. The scene plays over in his mind: Shepard’s finger digging into James’s chest, face mere inches away. The man’s voice a growl; a flash of red in his eyes.

For a moment James feels uneasy in his skin, but not really angry. Not really scared. 

He shoves the feeling away and turns to his side, dropping off into dreamless slumber.

*

The anger shifts. It turns from a useless, helpless shape into a clear target; the Reapers. The Council does fuck-all about Shepard’s demands for help, but James’s shotgun is ready for action. Fetching the primarch proves tricky, but at the end of the day, the Normandy’s crew expands by two Turians. 

That evening, James sits in the mess hall, shoveling down the grub that tastes surprisingly good. Steve’s in less of a hurry; he’s scrolling his datapad with one hand, the other shoving his food around with a fork. One of the Turians — Shepard’s old friend, Vakarian — chats with Doctor Chakwas in the med bay; James can see him laughing through the window, giving Chakwas’s shoulder a squeeze, and then he’s on the move.

The Turian rifles through the kitchen fridge, like it’s his own. Well, maybe it is. After all, James is among the new guys here, not him. 

Shepard walks in from the edge of James’s vision, greeting Vakarian with a broad grin. It's like nothing he’s seen before; the man looks totally relaxed. He grabs Vakarian’s hand and pulls the Turian into a man-hug, giving him a pat on the back. Laughing. Talking with such… ease. 

Nothing like the formal, serious hard-ass James knows. 

Something ugly awakens in James’s stomach. It creeps up his neck, lodging into the back of his head, and he almost shakes it to clear it. But no — he looks away, chews carefully, and goes back to his plate. 

What the hell is up with him? 

A minute later, Shepard joins them at their table, sitting next to Steve. There’s minimal small talk; some impressions of the new primarch, but Shepard seems most interested in his food. And no wonder; it’s been a long day. 

“Hey, Vega,” Shepard says, voice as expressionless as ever, “you fought well today.” 

James lifts a brow, meeting Shepard’s glowing red gaze. He could say the same about Shepard; he's never seen anyone so bold and ruthless. It means a lot coming from him, but James is not about to wax poetic. “Thanks, Loco.” 

Whatever’s sitting in the back of James’s head squeezes itself tighter until it’s easy to think it’s not there; Shepard’s lips curl into a small, crooked smile. There’s still two slices of bread with James’s name on them sitting on the table, and he grabs one haphazardly, answering Shepard’s smile with one of his own before taking a bite. 

“I knew you were one of the best soldiers out there,” Shepard stops his fork mid-air, glancing up as though rearranging something in his mind, “but nothing prepared me for seeing you in action. ”

It’s not the words so much as the way he says them. A look to his eyes, darkened; a note to his voice. A bit like a purr, but only a hint of it.

Steve coughs, slapping himself on the chest a couple of times, apologizing with a choked “sir.” James’s eyebrows shoot up, and what tension’s pooling in him tries to expend through a chuckle. “Thanks, but I don’t go there.” 

Shepard nods, back to normal. “Noted.” 

When the man’s finished eating and left, Steve casts an incredulous look at James. “You sure you don’t go there? Not even for him?” 

“Estebaaan, we’ve been over this,” James shakes his head with a wry smile — but somewhere deep in him, uncertainty bubbles.

*

Dancing with Shepard becomes a way to kill time between missions. The man is strong and fast, but rarely gets the upper hand; hand-to-hand is James’s specialty. Shepard’s quick right-hand jabs are a terror when successful, but it’s not punches that invade James’s thoughts before sleep pulls him under. 

He pushes the comforter down from his shoulder, almost letting a sigh slip out. It’s a bit too hot for his liking. Everyone else is asleep — or at least making a show of it. The night lamps embedded to the floor glow their pallid light, not quite reaching his upper-storey bunk. The crew quarters smell of new plastic, a variety of snacks all combined, and the distinct undertone of sweat.

Sweat. A drop of sweat had slid down Shepard’s cheek, slipping to his throat, disappearing under the collar of the black t-shirt hugging the man’s body. Not too tightly, but just enough to hint at the definition of his muscles. It’s a practical build, James knows, brought on by years in the front lines. Carrying weapons, always on the move. No lifting weights, no pull-ups. 

No way Shepard could beat his record of 182 pull-ups. No way.

And still, he’s got a form that catches the eye. James’s eye, in particular. 

He pushes the comforter farther, mildly annoyed now. Why the fuck is he so obsessed with Shepard all of the sudden? It’s not like he’s never noticed a good-looking guy before, but he’s never lost sleep over one for sure.

He chews the inside of his cheek, brows drawing together. Should he ask Steve about this? 

No. No, no, no. That’s a terrible idea. He’d make a fool of himself.

He can figure this out on his own. What he needs is a bit of time; maybe a healthy dose of avoidance, too. There’s always guns and armor to clean, poker matches to win, and Vakarian to disturb. Yeah. No fraternizing. Just camaraderie. 

Shepard never flirted again after James shot him down. Maybe he’ll take the hint if James says he’s busy. He pulls the comforter back up, settling comfortably, and focuses on relaxing his muscles one by one. Yeah. It’ll go away. He closes his eyes, ignoring the wriggle of protest in the back of his mind. 

*

The datapad glows in James’s hand, the email before him unchanged. Maybe if he keeps looking, the words will rearrange themselves. Surely this is some mistake. But no, it’s been a couple of weeks and it hasn’t happened. Hell, why’s this happening now on top of everything else? 

He ain’t sure if it even matters; there’s a good chance this war can’t be won. 

His omni-tool flares into life, and he accepts the incoming message. Shepard’s ready for him now; James turns off the datapad and heads for the elevator. 

It’s not that he’s dying for a heart-to-heart, and a part of him ain’t thrilled by the prospect of being alone with the man, but there’s no-one else to ask. Whatever confusion Shepard causes in him, he’s still an N7 and his commanding officer. 

The tips of James’s ears tingle as he walks into Shepard’s quarters. The man stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed on his chest, face as inscrutable as ever. It’s not before James lets out a joke that he cracks a smile. It’s all right. If he was a woman, people would call it a resting bitch face. James is used to it by now. 

But he’s here for a reason, and he gets to the point quickly. 

They take a seat on Shepard’s couch and the way the man talks catches him by surprise. He’s… careful, James realises. Attentive and understanding. James has never asked for sympathy for the call he made back in Fehl Prime, and yet when Shepard approves, some of his tension dissipates. 

“There’s not a single N7 that hasn’t sacrificed,” Shepard says, “either themselves or their soldiers at some point.” 

James leans back on the couch, frowning. He hadn’t thought of it like that. Shepard looks at him, clearly honest, and that’s when James decides to accept. If there’s an N7 programme to join at the end of all this, he’s game. Following in the footsteps of his commanding officer. 

“ _Gracias_. Well, I think I better get back to the hangar,” James lifts to his feet, giving Shepard a nod. “Things here are a little too soft for me.” 

“The bed’s a lot harder than it looks.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” James chuckles, almost automatically. He can’t tell if it’s a joke, but the image emerging in his head isn’t… unpleasant. Still, he flings it away as he makes his way back to the elevator. He’s got an email to write.

*

The hot Rannoch air blows in when James opens the shuttle door for Shepard and Tali’Zorah. Shepard brushes past to the cockpit, but the Quarian slumps heavily on the seat opposite to James, a weary sigh leaving her. 

“Congrats on getting your home back.”

She looks at James, eyes glowing behind her vizor. “Thank you.” He can’t be sure, but it’s like there’s a bittersweet smile in her voice. “It’s been… a day.” 

“Yeah, tell me about it. It ain’t every day we dust a Reaper.” 

They fall silent, Tali’Zorah leaning against the shuttle walls, adjusting her position until she’s comfortable. A couple of minutes pass, then the glow behind her mask goes out; her hands grow limp in her lap. 

Somewhere up above the Quarian fleet tears into the Geth; a civilization turns into rubble as the four of them sit easy in this shuttle. Shepard’s done talking to Steve; he takes a seat next to James. Not looking at him. There’s a tension in the man’s jaw, a subtle twitch in the corner of his eye — but he doesn’t say anything. And James doesn’t ask. It’s the price of command. The give and take. Destroy a Reaper, kill a friend. Win back a planet for your allies, set another species on fire. 

James knows the look on Shepard’s face. It’s the one in the mirror after Fehl Prime; a stony mask hiding a hurricane. On impulse, he rests a hand on the man’s back. 

Just a little gesture of understanding. Yeah, camaraderie. Nothing more than that.

When Shepard doesn’t flinch it off, he keeps it right there, his bare palm flat on top of hard armor. A weird sense of… this being right descends upon James, and he twists a bit inside his plates, wondering if he should give the man a pat and a chuckle, and move away. But he doesn’t. 

Whatever happened to healthy avoidance? 

The shuttle shakes ever so slightly as Steve punches through the atmosphere, the inertia dampeners taking the brunt of it, but James holds still. Breathing steadily. There’s a dryness in his throat that tickles, but he doesn’t cough. 

When the shuttle docks inside the Normandy, Tali’Zorah scrambles to straighten herself like she’d slept — and James pulls away as though shocked, tearing a space between Shepard and himself. How had they been so close? 

As James opens the door for his companions, Shepard gives him a long look — unsmiling, unreadable — and murmurs, “thanks.” His voice is soft; none of his usual tonelessness present.

This time James has to clear his throat, before whispering to the man’s retreating back, “Anytime, Loco.”

*

The skin at James’s back tickles, and it’s got nothing to do with the tattoo that’s still healing. It’s like he can feel Shepard’s eyes on the N7 logo, rowing from the ink to his muscles, up and down the length of him. 

It’s ridiculous; he’s exposing himself like a peacock, for reasons he’s still not ready to say out loud. All he’s sure of is that it doesn’t feel… wrong. Weird? Hell yes. But not wrong. 

Well, he should get going before things get more awkward than they already are. He pulls his shirt back on, saying a couple of parting words to Shepard, whose face is bathed in the orange light spilling in from the windows. He’s almost out of the door when he spots it; a punching bag in one of the bedrooms. Oh, hell. The perfect reason to stay a little longer. 

Shepard follows him into the room, and James babbles happily. It’s a good quality bag, all right? The jabs sink into its cushions, giving little feedback to his knuckles, aside from a satisfying tingle where leather meets skin. Yeah. He could get used to this. 

Some of his glee shifts and turns into something else as Shepard grips the pull-up bar, a look of grim dedication on his face. James eggs him on, baiting the man to try for his record. He keeps punching and grunting as Shepard starts working in the corner of his eye. Better not look too closely. 

Just enough to keep count.

It’s mildly impressive when Shepard hits twenty. His breathing is well-controlled, surprisingly disciplined for someone who doesn’t dedicate himself to the gym. When the count gets to fifty, James has to pause his boxing for a moment, taken aback. “I had no idea you had it in you.” 

Shepard casts him a look from beneath his brows. Spiteful — maybe even a little playful? — but he doesn’t say a word. His skin glimmers with a sheen of sweat, the fabric of his shirt clinging close to his form. James can’t help the way his eyes drift and fixate right to where the sleeve of Shepard’s shirt strains as he pulls. Shit. 

James gives the punching bag a few more hits — distracted, half-hearted punches — before giving up. He’s still counting. Seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight… The grunts coming out of Shepard are guttural, almost pained. 

That nudge in the back of his head is back, but a brisk shake does nothing to help. He feels it when Shepard looks at him; it’s like the air crackles as their gazes hold. The man’s eyes glow red as a beam of light hits his face from somewhere outside. James should be scared, but… a thrill runs through his body.

Oh, hell. What’s stopping him, exactly? What’ll be left of the Alliance after their last push? Will he even be alive — will Shepard? 

Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one.

But Shepard’s a man, and James is… kind of new to this. He likes a woman’s touch, the curving shapes, the sweet scent of perfume, and the feel of soft lips. No doubt about it. But maybe he also likes this; hard lines, a scratchy-looking stubble, strong arms, and musky scent. Yeah, it’s pretty new, maybe a freak accident, but it’s real. And maybe right now is the only chance he’ll get.

Fuck it.

James moves slowly, coming to a stop just before Shepard. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. His hands settle just above Shepard’s hip bones, and the man stops moving, giving him a quizzical look. “Hey, Loco,” James says, voice a little rough, heart hammering in his ears, “why don’t you save some of that energy for me?”

Shepard hangs from the bar, catching his breath. He’s not making an effort to escape, but his brows knit together skeptically. “Thought you didn’t go there.” 

“Yeah. Well. Maybe I changed my mind.”

*

The handjobs are hurried and over much too quickly, but James is into it. Really into it. They catch their breath for a moment, leaning against the closet doors, until there’s a crack behind James. He turns to look; a panel has snapped. “Shit.” 

“Nevermind that.” Shepard grabs the neck of James’s shirt, gives it a tug, and just like that, they’re kissing. 

Turns out James is really into this, too. His arms close around Shepard’s smaller frame, and he’s so preoccupied with his tongue he almost doesn’t notice when the back of his knee hits the bed. That should be alarming, right? But nah, he ain’t got no breaks anymore. 

He breaks the kiss to pull off his shirt, grinning as Shepard’s eyes roam over his chest, the man’s tongue darting out to lick his lips. “Like what you see?” 

“You know I do.” Shepard peels off his shirt, revealing a muscular torso. It’s scarred here and there — they’re just like the ones on his face, deep and glowing red. James doesn’t get the chance to map them out, though: Shepard bends to strip his pants, and James follows suit. 

It all happens in a blur; one moment they’re by the side of the bed, the next they’re making out on top of it. It takes surprisingly little for Shepard to coax him back into hardness, and minutes later he’s on his back, watching his slicked-up cock disappear up Shepard’s ass. Holy shit. 

He grabs the man by his hips, not really guiding him. Not really forceful. Just holding on for dear life as the man engulfs him over and over. The orange lights of Silversun Strip melt together with the red emanating from Shepard’s skin, and all James can do is enjoy the view.

Turns out he really loves it. They do it again and again; not just in Anderson’s loft, but back in the Normandy, too. James bunks in Shepard’s cabin more often than not. Yeah, it’s fraternizing on steroids and the Alliance can court-martial them later, for all he cares. It’s an end-of-the-world kind of a thing. He’s thrilled by the way Shepard moans under him, how he laughs when they’re alone, the ease with which they exist together. Weeks pass and they don’t talk about what it means — but when James stays behind as Shepard heads for the beam… well, it’s hard to say goodbye. 

Maybe it’s not just the sex he loves, but the words tangle in his throat. 

*

London is a mess of dead bodies and broken buildings, but James can’t leave. He’s got to see this through. It’s been a couple of days since the Reapers suddenly inactivated, and he and Steve have volunteered for the clearing efforts. Dust stings his eyes as he digs through rubble on Waterloo Road, looking for survivors. They’ve found a few — and all too many cadavers — but the rock stretching the pit of his stomach never seems to lighten.

No sign of Shepard. 

He should give up on hope, he fucking _knows_ it — but every time his omni-tool flares up with news, he holds his breath. 

Him and Steve break for lunch at noon, following the civilians they’re working with into a makeshift breakroom in one of the destroyed shops. It’s there his omni-tool starts flashing; his personalized Alliance News Network feed has updated. Putting down his sandwiches, he flicks the feed open, and there— 

He inhales sharply. Lets the air out in a slow, deliberate breeze. The weight in his stomach shifts, jumping to his chest, pumping to the beat of his heart. A hand lands on his shoulder; Steve’s laugh is breathless. 

_‘Commander Shepard found alive.’_


End file.
